‘Hello,’ I mumble. ‘Who is this?’
The moment I hear his voice I know it’s Pavel. He’s lightly drunk. He says he’s been to a concert. Smetana and then a Dvořák symphony. After that, a meal and a bottle of Macon in a favourite restaurant. Now he’s standing on a bridge trying to imagine the lights reflected on the pleats of the water. He wants me to know that the dog is OK, tied securely to a ring on the bridge, and that he’ll always love me.
I’m staring at the phone. I’ve read enough scripts in my life to know that this is a suicide call, a moment of fond adieu before the plunge into oblivion. The Thames after midnight, I think, even in late August, will be unforgiving and probably terminal.
‘Which bridge?’ I ask him.
No reply.
‘You’re nearby? Chiswick Bridge? Hammersmith Bridge? Somewhere further downstream? Westminster? Lambeth? Waterloo, maybe?’
There’s still no answer but I’m out of bed now, making for the phone in the lounge. Once I know where he is I can call 999 on my landline while I try and talk him down.
‘Pavel?’ I’m pleading now. ‘Just give me the name of the fucking bridge.’
This is the second time in twenty-four hours I’ve phoned the emergency services. I’m half-wondering whether the operator will recognize my voice, or perhaps my number, but it’s a woman this time. Shielding my smartphone, I do my best to describe what’s happening.
‘We need a name,’ she says. ‘And a location.’
Too right. I’m trying my hardest to get Pavel back on the line.
‘Pavel,’ I whisper to the 999 operator. ‘His name’s Pavel.’
‘And where, exactly, do we find him?’
I’m about to explain the situation all over again when I hear Pavel’s voice. He sounds apologetic. He says he’s been attending to the dog again.
‘So where are you?’ I ask him. ‘Which bridge?’
There’s a moment of silence, then I hear a soft chuckle. ‘It’s the Charles Bridge,’ he says. ‘In Prague.’
Prague? Shit. I’m about to ask the 999 lady what I do next but Pavel hasn’t finished.
‘Ahoj, my love,’ he whispers. ‘That’s Czech for goodbye.’
The phone goes dead. I swallow hard. The 999 lady wants to know what’s happening. I tell her my friend is in Prague and he’s probably jumped. She gives me a Foreign and Commonwealth Office number and says it’s manned 24/7. They may be able to help. She’ll also explore some other options but she thinks a call to the FCO is my best way forward.
I dial the number. It’s a male voice this time. He’s courteous and sympathetic and he hears me out. Blind man. Tallish. Middle-aged. Dog. Passion for Prague. Charles Bridge.
‘And depressed, you think?’
I’m not sure about depression. Just now I’m not sure about anything, but this is no time to speculate about what led Pavel to make the phone call. All I can think about is that image on his TV and the big white spaces of the room he calls home and what it must be like to be seconds away from drowning. Maybe he’s been drowning most of his life. Maybe that’s it.
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘Depression probably covers it.’
The FCO man takes some brief personal details. He’ll phone the embassy in Prague and ask them to alert the local police. He has a description of my friend and he has a name. God willing, they’ll get there in time.
I thank him for his patience and he promises to phone back if there are any developments. In the kitchen I slump at the table and stare numbly at the walls. The word here is guilt. I feel swamped. I feel overwhelmed. Somehow I appear to be responsible for the death of another human being. Worse still, I seem to have killed someone who I’d become really close to.
I try very hard to replay the scene that followed Malo’s departure from right here in my flat the other night. Me and Pavel talking on the sofa. His acuity. The sharpness of his instincts. The way he’d read my wayward son. And that splinter of ice at the very middle of him that couldn’t – or wouldn’t – push the conversation any further.
Were he and H right about Malo using cocaine? Very probably. But why couldn’t Pavel understand how upset I was? Why didn’t he put his arms around me and tell me everything would be OK, everything would work out, that together we’d plot a route out of this nightmare?
Plot, I think. The key word, the curse of our trade, the delusion that real life should for ever resemble the tensions, resolvable or otherwise, of a good movie script. Berndt, my ex-husband, had been very good at plots but failed the being-human test and now, once again, I seem to have fallen into the penumbra of someone very similar. Except in Pavel’s case he had the makings of a decent excuse. Close your eyes a moment. Let the darkness enfold you. Imagine being that way for ever. No wonder he took care to keep his distance.
Took. Past tense. I shiver, suddenly cold. I can see Pavel’s body floating away down the river and I shake my head, part guilt, part despair, remembering again our conversation after Malo left. Scriptwriters are there at the Creation. They play God for a living. They start with the blankness of the PC screen. They invent characters. They cage them in a plot. They put them to the test. And very often, thanks to the serendipity of a couple of keystrokes, they decide whether they survive, or whether they die.
I think I’ve dimly understood this for most of my working life, especially the God bit, but in the shape of Pavel I know I met someone who took this strange magic into a different dimension. That was his talent. That was what made him so magnetic, so fascinating. He had a gravitational pull I found impossible to resist. And now he’s gone.
When we were talking on the sofa and the conversation was getting strained he told me that anything – on the page and perhaps in real life – is possible, and now it turns out he’s right. At the time, in my defence, I failed to pick up the coded message buried in this simple proposition, so maybe I should have listened a little harder. And understood.
FIFTEEN
The next morning is Monday. The ransom deadline for Clem is just hours away but now my lovely writer has introduced a new plot twist. Hoping against hope, I hang around the apartment waiting for the phone to ring. If the news from the Foreign Office is good, if the Czechs have managed to lay hands on Pavel, downstream or otherwise, I’ll be on my way to the airport in seconds. I have a bag packed. I’ve been on the internet and found a couple of cheapish flights that would get me to downtown Prague in short order. Quite what might lie beyond this moment of reunion is anyone’s guess but in Pavel’s world, dark as it is, I’ll definitely be back on the side of the angels. And that, believe it or not, matters a great deal.
But there’s no word from the FCO. By lunchtime, I’m fighting the temptation to lift the phone. An hour later, I succumb. I expect another voice on the emergency helpline and I’m not disappointed. The woman takes some time to consult the log of overnight calls and then, with just a hint of apology, she regrets that no word has come from the authorities in Prague.
‘Is it possible to check?’ I ask.
‘That might not be appropriate.’
‘Then can you give me a number to try myself? Or maybe an email address?’
‘I’m afraid not. There’s a protocol that governs these enquiries. If anything’s happened I’m sure the Czechs would have been in touch.’
This appears to be the end of the conversation. Other phones are ringing in the background. Just another frantic day in Whitehall.
‘You’ll phone if you get any news?’ I’m trying not to sound plaintive.
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’
I check my phone for other messages, just in case, then stand at my window, staring at the greyness of the day. A couple of hours ago I Googled a map of the Czech Republic. The river that runs through Prague is the Vltava. According to the best source I could find, it runs at an average speed of just over two miles per hour. By now, according to my calculations, that would put Pavel’s body twenty miles downstream. Here, the riv
er runs through a series of waterside towns and villages. Should I take a flight in any case? Hire a car? Find a bus? Pay a visit to Kralupy, or Veltrusy, in search of Pavel’s remains? Even the thought of an expedition like this is slightly grotesque. I don’t even know the Czech for ‘hello’ or ‘excuse me’, let alone enough of the language to organize my dead pianist’s repatriation. I’m beginning to hallucinate, I conclude. What I really need is an hour or two of proper sleep.
I awake to Tina Turner. Making a mental note yet again to change my ringtone, I reach for my phone. To my amazement, it’s early evening. The Foreign Office, I think. Good news at last.
It’s H. He wants to know how Bridport is working out.
‘It’s not. I’m still in London. Working on a new script.’
It’s a small lie but oddly close to the truth. It also seems to keep H in his place.
‘You’re still up for it, right?’
‘I am. Just give me a day or two.’
‘Of course. No problem. I’ve had Mateo on. Just thought you ought to know.’
‘And?’
‘He’s been talking to that clown O’Keefe. Mateo seems to think he went in at seven five, maybe ten.’
‘Ten what?’
‘Grand. I gather they laughed at him. Next thing Mateo knows he’s looking at a text. Two million. They’ve doubled the fucking price.’
‘And what does O’Keefe say?’
‘He’s pissed off they’re in touch with Mateo at all. He says the whole thing’s irregular. He’s telling Mateo these people are amateurs. They haven’t a clue what they’re doing.’
‘So how does that help Clem? And us?’
‘It doesn’t. O’Keefe can bitch all he likes but in the end these animals are who they are. We’re at the fucking table. You play the cards you’re dealt. O’Keefe doesn’t even want us in the room. He thinks it’s his business, no one else’s.’
I nod. I think I understand. I could badly use a glass or two of that Rioja Pavel and I started. I head for the kitchen, my phone pressed to my ear.
‘So where do we go from here?’ I ask H.
‘Bridport,’ he grunts. ‘I’m parked up outside.’
SIXTEEN
We’re down in west Dorset by half past nine. The traffic has been evil and I’ve spent most of the journey brooding about Pavel and half-listening to a Neil Diamond best-of CD, an H favourite. At my insistence he’s booked me a single room in a Bridport hotel. Malo, as far as I can gather, has been grounded at Flixcombe until we get to the bottom of whatever’s happened to Clem, and I now have a leading role to play in Bridport. The conversations I’m hoping to share at the Landfall will stretch my acting talents to their limits. Adding my son to the mix, living under the same roof, is – for now – an ask too far.
‘You’re sure you don’t want to stay over?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘You want me to hang around at all? Just in case?’
‘No.’
We’ve left my bag at the hotel and now we’re cruising slowly down the main street. This stretch of the town, in the fading light, lives up to its billing. A line of gleaming 4x4s parked at the kerbside. Stylish restaurants, bursting at the seams. We’ve come to a halt beside one of them, waiting for the traffic lights to change. Three generations are gathered at the same table closest to the window. Tanned, well-fed faces. A grandfather in the rudest of health, jeans and an open-necked sports shirt, shaping some story or other with his big hands. Kids eyeing the last of the rough-cut chips over their iPads. Much laughter.
The lights change and H is looking for a street at the bottom of the town. Here we find the pub. The Landfall, like the restaurant we’ve just seen, is packed but it’s a different clientele: younger, scruffier, poorer. A handful of youth are in a huddle next to the door, sharing a doobie, and heads turn as we roll to a halt. There’s something slightly feral in the openness of their curiosity and I’m starting to wonder whether I’ll need a tattoo to get past them and into the pub when another car draws up behind us.
H has to move on. He puts a hand on my thigh, gives it a little squeeze.
‘It’s a shithole.’ He slips me a roll of notes. ‘Good fucking luck.’
I stuff the money into the back pocket of my jeans, adjust my beret and make my way across the street. H has already gone. I’m on my own. The boys at the door part with some reluctance.
‘Nice T-shirt.’
I’m wearing one of Malo’s with Albert Einstein on the front. It’s been in a drawer in the spare bedroom for months and when I threw it in my bag, just hours ago, it seemed a witty thing to do. Now I’m not so sure. Just what kind of attention do I want to attract?
‘Glad you like it,’ I murmur, edging sideways through the narrow gap between bodies and stepping into the pub.
The bitter sweetness of the weed has gone. The Landfall smells of spilled ale, the way it should. There’s a mix of faces around me, crowding towards the bar. Some are much older than I’d expected. These are outdoor people, maybe builders, maybe fishermen, jowly but fit-looking, heavily tanned. Glassy-eyed, a couple of them must have been here for hours. One of them has a big gold earring. Another has scabs of plaster on his threadbare jeans. He tries to hold my gaze for a second or two and then a huge hand raises his glass in some kind of salute. I nod back and then look elsewhere. An ancient jukebox is playing at full blast. This is no place, thank God, for conversation.
Above the scrum of drinkers is a TV showing a football match. The picture is blurred, blobs of blue chasing blobs of red, and no one’s paying the slightest attention. Spotting a gap between three youths in designer tracksuits, I make a lunge for the bar. The barman, I’ve noted, has been watching me. I’ve already decided to ask for a glass of wine. It’s very obvious I don’t belong here so another little stand-out won’t go amiss.
The barman wants to know what colour I want.
‘Do you have any Shiraz?’ I shout.
‘What colour’s that?’
‘Red.’
‘We’ve got red. Big glass? Just you, is it?’
I nod to both questions. He’s found a bottle in the fridge. I try to read the label as he pours a generous measure. A glass of chilled Tempranillo on a wet night in Bridport? Why not?
I wrestle H’s wad of notes out of my jeans pocket. They’re all twenties and I must be looking at two hundred pounds, minimum. The barman is Mr Cool and pretends not to have noticed but the kids at my elbow are seriously excited.
‘Fuck me,’ says one of them. ‘Check that out.’
I do my best to grin. His mate has noticed my T-shirt.
‘Who’s that?’ he wants to know.
‘Albert Einstein.’
‘Peng,’ he says. ‘He looks a mad old dog.’
‘Peng?’
‘Hot. Fit. Who does he play for?’
This, despite the roar of the jukebox, has the makings of a conversation. His mates think the play-for comment is funny. They’re drinking something crimson but I don’t know what. At some point or other I have to make a start on what I came for and now might be the time.
‘I came here to meet my son,’ I shout. ‘His name’s Malo. He sometimes wears a T-shirt like this. Ever seen him?’
The youths exchange glances. They’re all thin. Not a teardrop tattoo between them. The barman is handing me my change. The youths all drain their glasses at a single gulp and reach across me to put them on the counter. The message couldn’t be clearer.
The barman knows exactly what they’re drinking. A nod from me produces three new glasses.
‘What’s the name again?’
‘Malo.’
‘What sort of name’s that?’
‘It’s French.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Your age. His girlfriend’s South American. Dark. Small. Really pretty.’
One of the youths is frowning. ‘Big bike? Harley? Really cool leather jacket?’
‘That’s her.’ My heart gives a leap
. ‘You know them?’
‘Seen them a couple of times.’
‘In here?’
‘And around, yeah. Peng bike. Can’t miss it. Off the fucking hook.’
On top of the original twenty pounds, the barman wants another £3.55. I haul out the notes again. I’m starting to attract serious attention. One of the youths, the oldest, wants to know whether I’m buying.
‘I just did.’ I nod at the drinks.
He stares at me a moment, then laughs. The nose piercings don’t suit him.
‘Maybe you’re carrying,’ he says. ‘What can you do me for a fiver?’
This, it dawns on me, is drug-speak. Bingo.
‘Depends,’ I say. ‘What are you after?’
The youth looks uncertain for a moment. Then I hear a voice very close to my right ear.
‘Does your mum know you’re here?’
I spin round. A face I’ve never seen before is looking down at me. He must be in his late thirties, early forties. Underneath the three-day stubble he’s handsome and the hint of mischief in his smile tells me he knows it. Black jeans and a Lacoste shirt, with a black leather jacket hooked over his shoulder. Nice.
He bends to my ear again. I can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek.
‘French film star consorting with Dorset lowlife? Am I getting warm here?’
I nod. He tries to put a protective arm around my shoulders and walk me away from the youths. I shake him off, ask him what he thinks he’s doing.
‘Andy Cassidy?’ he says. ‘Ring any bells?’
Andy Cassidy is Jessie’s partner. They have a cottage in the grounds at Flixcombe and both work for H. I spent weeks last summer fighting him off.
‘You know Andy?’
‘Yeah. Not a bad bloke for a Villa fan.’
‘So how come you recognized me?’
‘He’s got a couple of your movies on DVD. We watched The Hour of Our Passing last weekend. Cracking scene at the end.’ He’s looking at my beret, which seems to have slipped a little. ‘What happened under there?’
Sight Unseen Page 8
